


And Woe Unto The Mother

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Creepy Moriarty, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty was REAL, Mother-Son Relationship, Mrs. Hudson Has Secrets, Mrs. Hudson Is Moriarty's Mother, POV Mrs. Hudson, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson has been keeping a secret for a long time, a secret that she has a relationship with James Moriarty that no one is aware of: he is the son she gave up for adoption so long ago. And now he’s come back to make sure she regrets ever acknowledging him as her son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Woe Unto The Mother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RadiantxDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadiantxDreams/gifts).



> So this is a Christmas gift to **RadiantxDreams** , who asked for fic for Christmas on a wishlist community on Liveournal and then said to surprise them with fic. This fic was partially inspired by a tweet from [SherlockShorts](https://twitter.com/SherlockShorts) (found [here](http://s7.postimg.org/oe4m46fkb/Mrs_Hudson_Is_Moriarty_s_Mum_Prompt.jpg)) but I veered away from it quite a bit. Anyway, I hope it's still enoyed, and happy holidays to my recipient!

Her one mistake.

Well, no, she’d made a few in her life. Getting in the car that had caused the accident that had given her the bad hip had been one, she supposed. Getting too fond of the drink had been another, though by the grace of God she had a handle on that one, for the most part. She still liked to indulge on occasion. Marrying Frank had been the biggest one for a long while, she supposed. Nasty man he’d been. Beat her when he couldn’t beat the other women he was with. He’d pistol whipped her a few times. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock, bless him, she might have had to live her life in fear that somehow he’d get out of prison and come after her.

But her biggest mistake ever was acknowledging the man in front of her, when he finally tracked her down, she thought to herself. Oh, dear Lord, she never should have done that. Granted, she could have only played dumb for so long. He’d have seen right through her, and she doubted she would have lived through his retribution. She could see it in his eyes.

She’d been young and foolish, she had. Her parents had taken her on holiday to Ireland and her father, a rash and foolish man, had fallen in love with Ballinagree, in County Cork. He’d quit his job and moved them there and oh, she’d enjoyed it at first but then grown to loathe it. And then she’d been stuck, even after she’d grown older. Her life had become stagnated. She wanted freedom, wanted to spread her wings. She’d taken up with Jim McGloughlin and they’d run off together, making it to Dublin and spending the night in a rundown hotel, pretending to be man and wife.

And the next morning he was gone, with all the money she’d stolen from her mother and father.

But he’d left her with something more.

Being an unmarried pregnant woman was still such a horrid thing, even then. She stayed in a home for unwed mothers and as soon as she had the babe she placed him in the arms of the midwife and had him taken away. And as soon as she was able, she left the home, left Ireland, went back to England and then away from there as well, putting her past behind her and trying hard to make a life for herself, a life that ignored all of the past.

Until the past came knocking at her door all those years ago.

He had stood there, bag in hand, and asked if she was Martha Louise Sissons. It had been so long since she’d heard that name. she’d nodded and said yes, she was. He’d given her a grin and said his name was Jim Moriarty, and he’d been born at Sean Ross Abbey and he’d tracked her down through records and things and he was her son, the one she had given up for adoption all those years ago, and could they talk? She’d been part elated and a small part terrified; the smile on his face hadn’t quite reached his eyes. There was something…odd…about him. But he was her son, and so she nodded and she let him in.

And then later, Sherlock found the trainers of the murdered boy in 221C.

And she knew. She _knew_ , even before Sherlock did.

Her son had been the murderer.

She kept it from Sherlock, though. Even when the people began having bombs strapped to them and he told her to be careful, to be wary of who she talked to, who she let into Baker Street, who she associated with, she kept this from him. It was her dark secret to bear, her secret shame. Her flesh and blood was a cold-blooded psychopath. And it only got worse as time went on, as she saw the twisted game he ensnared Sherlock in. She watched, and even when she should have said something she stayed silent. She wrestled with that. She knew she should speak. But what good would it do? He was so…crafty. So intelligent. He had everyone so flummoxed, even Sherlock. He was so calculating and so cold. She had given birth to evil incarnate, it seemed.

And then it was over. He was dead, and so was Sherlock. She grieved over Sherlock more than her own son. Wept at Sherlock’s grave, kept Sherlock’s flat exactly as it was without moving a single item as silent testament to the man she loved more dearly than the monster she had given birth to. She mourned him and tried her best to forget about her own child. So it was with a shock when Sherlock came back from the dead. She had screamed, of course. Tried to hit him with a pan. But oh, she had been grateful. Wept tears of joy, welcomed him back with open arms. Mothered him as much as she could. 

She had just dearly hoped that the same never happened with the son she had actually bore.

So when she arrived back at her flat to see the door ajar, she felt her heart stop for a moment. Something was not right. She had seen the video; they had all seen the video. _Everyone_ had seen her son’s face on their television screens, his taunting “Miss me?” message blasted across the country. Her hands were trembling as she opened the door. There was a single light on in her sitting room, and she could see a figure sitting in the chair, though there was a shadow on his face.

“Miss me, Mother?” Moriarty asked quietly, drawling out the word mother. He stood up and then moved over to the light. “I thought we could have a chat, while Sherlock’s off making sure his precious friends are safe. I’m sure you’re on the list, but I doubt he knows your deep, dark secret yet.”

“Get out,” she said, her voice trembling even though she tried to be strong.

He studied the picture on the table by her light. It was from the wedding, a picture of her and Sherlock, John and Mary. “I won’t make mistakes this time, Mother. I’ll make sure everyone pays. Sherlock's blogger, his detective, his pathologist…I should have put a sniper on her last time, that’s a mistake I won’t make again. I’ll make sure I take out Mary this time. She won’t be a help, not like at the pool. She’d be a hindrance now. And then Sherlock. But you…” He looked over at her and grinned. “You I think I’ll keep alive. Someone has to tell the story, after all. Every good tragedy like Hamlet needs a Horatio, after all.” He moved closer to her and she recoiled slightly when he got next to her, but all he did was lean over and kiss her cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon, _Mother_ ,” he said before leaving her home.

She stood in her sitting room, shaking for a moment, before she moved to her chair and sat down. She picked up the picture and felt tears spill down her cheeks. Oh, Lord, she thought to herself. What had she done?


End file.
